Short story: The Sound of the Opening Ceremony Drum

1.

The golden September sun shone through the leaves of the banyan tree, casting dappled light across the schoolyard. The late autumn cicadas chirped incessantly, as if still clinging to the summer days. On the wooden platform in the middle of the yard, the dark red school drum lay still, waiting for someone to strike it, marking the beginning of a new year.

Sitting in the teacher's seat, Mr. Tư – with his graying hair and tall, thin frame – glanced around at the rows of students in class 10A1, his new homeroom class. This class… was truly a “mixed bag”: Tuấn “the skinny one,” tall and lanky, dark-skinned, more interested in football than math; Hạnh “the naive one,” rustic, with big round eyes, whose honest remarks were almost comical; and especially… Khang – the new transfer student, with light brown dyed hair and a shirt that was never fully buttoned.
Within just the first week, Khang had already become a "phenomenon" at school - in a negative sense: skipping classes, smoking, and even getting into fights.
On the second day of the third week, Mr. Tư called Khang to the blackboard.
- I'll do this assignment.
Khang crossed his arms, a slight smirk on his face:
- I'm not doing it. This assignment... is pointless.
The whole class held their breath. Skinny Tuan lightly kicked Hanh's leg under the desk, his eyes gleaming as if waiting to see a good show. But the teacher didn't scold him. He just twirled the chalk and wrote another, shorter piece:
- What about this problem? If you get it right, I won't ask any more questions.
Khang took the chalk, scribbled something illegible, and finished. Correct.
- Good. Then that other problem shouldn't be difficult either.
He hesitated, then bent down and continued writing. Both answers were correct.
Khang stepped away from the blackboard, feeling a little… unbalanced. He had mentally prepared himself for a harsh scolding, just like back in his lower grades. Back then, simply for forgetting his notebook, his teacher made him stand in front of the class and read a humiliating apology. The feeling of being humiliated made Khang furious, and he swore disrespectfully. The result: a week's suspension, his parents being called to school, his friends shunning him, and a barrage of online "exposes" of his misbehavior. That vicious cycle pushed him further away from school.
But today, this teacher… just nodded and smiled slightly. For the first time in months, Khang found it a little… puzzling.

2.

One afternoon, as rain was about to fall and dust was being blown around by the wind, Mr. Tư was driving his daughter home after her extra classes. Seeing Khang standing by a roadside stall, his shirt soaked with rain and his cheek bruised, he stopped the car:
- Come up here, I'll give you a ride home.
- No need. - He lowered his head.
Whether it's necessary or not is up to me to decide.
Khang's house was located at the very end of a winding alley, its walls covered in peeling moss, and a damp smell rising from puddles that never dried. The streetlights had long since gone out, leaving only a weak yellow light emanating from a small window the size of a mirror.
My grandmother lay curled up on the bamboo bed, coughing intermittently. In the corner of the room, a worn-out quilt was neatly folded. No one else was in sight.
Khang's father is serving a prison sentence. His mother left when he was only eight years old. He has to manage everything at home, from cooking and doing laundry to taking his grandmother to the clinic.
Teacher Tư didn't ask any questions. He just bent down to the basket on his bike, took out a packet of bread and a bottle of warm milk – the portion his daughter hadn't had time to eat for breakfast that day.
- You should eat.
Khang hesitated for a moment, then took it. But his eyes looked elsewhere, as if afraid someone would see his weakness.
The teacher sat down on the doorstep, without saying another word. The only sounds were the old woman coughing and a cat tapping its paws against a hollow bamboo pipe somewhere.
After a long while, Khang quickly wiped away the hot, wet tears from his cheek. His voice was choked with emotion:
- My father… isn't a bad person, sir.
The words came out like a pebble dropped into water, creating ripples that followed.
That year, the family was so poor that during meals, the grandmother had to give the thin soup to the siblings. The father, out of love for his children, decided to go far into the forest. He caught an animal – gentle-looking, with fur as smooth as silk. The father didn't know this species was on the endangered list. He brought it home and cared for it until it reproduced. A few years later, the father had a whole herd, which he sold to earn money for Khang and his siblings' education.
Then one day, the police raided the place. They read out the indictment for "trafficking in rare animals," and sentenced my father to six years in prison.
Many villagers felt sorry for him, saying, "He didn't know, he just wanted to take care of his child." But there were also other glances—colder, heavier—as if the father and son had committed a heinous crime that could never be forgiven. Whispers and sarcastic remarks echoed behind their backs.
Khang's mother couldn't bear it anymore. She left the village, and no one knows where she went. That figure disappeared completely from then on.
The conversation stopped, only the clicking sound of the wall fan remained, and Teacher Tư's gaze was calm, neither interrupting nor offering any awkward words of comfort.
The teacher gently pushed the package of bread a little further towards Khang, as if saying, "Eat it before it gets cold."

3.

The next morning, Khang arrived at class earlier than usual. He said nothing. But in his gaze, the teacher noticed that a certain roughness had lessened.
Half a semester has passed. Skinny Tuan is less mischievous, goofy Hanh is more confident, and Khang has stopped skipping class. The whole class is whispering to each other: "Teacher Tu has magic powers."
Then the school launched a photo contest called "The Schoolyard Through My Eyes." The whole class was excited, but Khang hesitated:
- I… don't have a camera.
"I have the camera. But you'll have to take the photos yourself," the teacher said, his voice like a gentle toss of a ball towards him.
Khang's photo won first prize: The schoolyard at dawn, dew drops trembling on the leaves, the silhouette of a man wiping the blackboard in the distance. Caption: The one who wakes us up in the morning.
On the final day of school, as the last drumbeat of the school year sounded, Khang stepped onto the stage, holding a package wrapped in newspaper.
- Teacher… can I leave this here?
Inside was an old watch with a worn leather strap.
- It's from my dad. He said that a good man knows how to manage his time… and keep his promises.
Teacher Tư took it. In that moment, the sound of the school drum not only signaled the end of the ceremony, but also seemed to usher in a new school year - not only for the students, but also for the teacher.
On the way home, the teacher stopped to buy a bunch of yellow chrysanthemums. Thao saw them and jokingly asked:
- You received another gift from your students, didn't you?
Yes… but I will keep this gift for the rest of my life.
The old clock sat proudly on the desk, beside a stack of lesson plans. Its hands still ticked, slowly and steadily, like the very rhythm of a teacher's heart. And somewhere in that small town, a student with dyed hair was learning to keep his first promise.

4.

On Friday afternoon, the schoolyard was filled with the cheers of students preparing for the weekend. The wind carried the scent of milk flowers into every corner of the classrooms. Khang slowly packed his bag, intending to stop by Mr. Tư's office to ask about his studies.
As soon as he stepped out the gate, he heard a familiar whistling sound. Three old friends – with dyed hair and ripped denim jackets – were leaning against their motorbike, laughing loudly.
"It's been so long since I've seen you, I thought you'd forgotten about us!" one guy said, patting Khang on the shoulder. "Come on, we just found a really fun place."
He hesitated. In the past, such calls were summonses. But now… he remembered the bag of guavas his grandmother had asked him to bring to the teacher, the unfinished math notebook, and even the look in Mr. Tư's eyes that morning.
"I'm... busy," Khang said softly.
"Busy with what?" the redhead scoffed. "Studying? Don't tell me you're planning to become a 'bookworm'?"
The teasing touched the rebellious ego within him. For a split second, he almost blurted out his usual curt remark. But then… Mr. Tư’s voice echoed somewhere in his head: “No one stays stupid forever if they study. But before studying Math, you need to learn to believe in yourself first.”
Khang took a deep breath.
Yeah, I'm busy studying.
Without waiting for them to say anything more, he turned around and walked quickly towards the teachers' room.
Inside the room, Mr. Tư was grading papers when he heard hurried footsteps in the hallway and looked up. Khang was standing there, breathing heavily, with beads of sweat on his forehead.
- Teacher… I didn't understand this part of yesterday's lesson. Could you explain it to me again?
Teacher Tư said nothing, only nodded slightly. But in his eyes, Khang saw something sparkling, like a "received" mark sent straight to his heart.
Outside, the sounds of motorbikes and the laughter of old friends gradually faded away, dissipating into the weekend afternoon.

5.

The schoolyard was adorned with flags and flowers on the opening day. The MC invited a representative from the 10th grade to give a speech. From the back row, Khang stood up. His white shirt was neatly pressed, his shoes gleaming clean, and he walked onto the stage with a maturity rarely seen in a fifteen-year-old boy.
Khang's voice rang out, initially trembling slightly:
- I used to think… school wasn't for me. But then, I met a teacher who not only taught me knowledge, but also taught me to believe in myself…
Below, Tuan "the skinny one" rested his chin on his hand, his eyes wide open; Hanh "the goofy one" nodded slightly, while Teacher Tu looked at his student with a warm but silent gaze.
Khang took a deep breath and said his last words:
- Today… I want to express my gratitude to my grandmother, my teacher, and… my father – who taught me what it means to get back up after falling.
A soft murmur arose. Outside the school gate, a thin but sturdy man, his old shirt neatly ironed, stood silently. His eyes were red and swollen, but his gaze never left his son. He had just been granted early release for good behavior, and this morning, instead of going straight home, he had come here.
A gentle breeze blew, causing the flag on the field to flutter softly. Khang caught sight of that familiar figure through the gap between the two rows of seats. He pursed his lips, his eyes brightening. Outside, his father nodded slightly, a silent but firm promise.
The sound of the opening ceremony drum echoed, its melody soaring high and then reverberating far, touching every window, every leaf, every heartbeat on the school grounds. In that drumbeat, there was a newly kindled hope, a silent yet profound forgiveness, and a new beginning—not just for the school year, but for the father and son who were rediscovering each other.
The sound of the school drum – heard by generations of students – still retains its vibrant rhythm, but each person, at different times, carries a unique meaning in their heart. For Khang, it was the sound that marked the day he finally turned his back on school. For his father, it was a reminder that, no matter how lost he might become, he could always find his way back to the familiar sound of the drum to start anew.